One Chance Is All You Get
by eternal second
Summary: Matt manages to get away alive in this because I wanted to rant about Mello's death and all the why-why-why-no-no-no that comes with it, and there's no chance of Near doing that without being too OOC. A sort of sequel to "Gone," I suppose.


**-_-_One Chance is All You Get-_-_**

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><p><strong>AN: **An old idea; I don't remember what I was thinking when I wrote this. This is Matt, by the way, after Mello's death. Matt manages to get away alive in this version because I wanted to rant about Mello's death and all the why-why-why-no-no-no that comes with it, and there's no chance of Near doing that without being too OOC. A sort of sequel to "Gone," I suppose. And this may sound very angst-cheesy, but no, it's not exactly emo, per se, it's post traumatic stress.

**P.S.: **Small reference to the Another Note LABB novel.

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><p><em>I've never quite believed that one chance is all I get. Writing is my way of making other chances. <em>

– _Anne Tyler_

I read these words off the calendar tacked to the dorm wall and I think: what is she talking about?

It takes me a moment to remember where I am. I am…

…in Wammy's House?

Near.

Near asked Roger a favor. He wanted me to recover here for a while. The only place I'd ever meant anything; the only place I had some sort of life. But I know I can't go back to that now.

I can't think straight unless I wake up. Wake up completely. The last vestiges of a dream are still hanging over my head like cigarette smoke.

_One chance is all you get._

Well, that's what I've always believed too: First impressions. Once in a lifetime chances. Do it or die. It all made perfect sense to me. It's the same principle in video games. It's like in real life. But there's no dying in video games, if you think of it. You can always start over again. You only have to deal with losing, and even then, you get another chance. It's only temporary. Temporary death.

_He _hated losing.

In real life, you can lose, and you can die. Can you win by dying? It sounds insane. But I guess it's always better than living and losing.

Second chances. What a good idea. Why didn't I get one? Why didn't _he? _Is there something you have to do first, to pay for another go? Why didn't things work out that way? Why are there only second chances for some things and not others? How come we never get second chances for the really important things, the things we're prone to make mistakes about, like life?

How come we never get second chances at life?

Or do we…?

That's not how it worked out for us, for him. For me.

Do it or die. He did both.

You get one choice, one option, one chance to decide whether to throw it all away. And the clock doesn't turn back for you, you worthless human, when you realize you've chosen wrong. Imagine the countless times you could redo all your mistakes. We'd all be stuck for eternity. Forever will last a minute.

It doesn't make sense, does it?

Maybe I'm still asleep.

I'm lying here, and I think I'm awake, and the early sunshine blinds me. Where did the curtains go? And what's that smell? Did someone burn something? I think I remember something of last night… I think I lost my mind, or whatever survived the shooting with me. Whatever was left of me.

Still can't think straight; still can't wake up. Truth is, I don't want to think. I don't even want to wake up. If I did, I would have to remember, and that always hurts more than forgetting. Where was I before? In some boundless unfeeling, unconscious realm of dreams and nightmares that whisper after you even after you think you've woken up. I want to go back there and just…dissolve.

This world has nothing for me anymore.

This world is a bad memory. This whole world is a fucking nightmare, more real, more terrifying than anything your mind can imagine up. And now it's empty.

Empty.

Second chances. It's the perfect lie to dream up false hopes.

I get up and out of bed. There really is no use pretending anymore. The dreams won't come back. This is the world, and I have another day to face.

Early light streaming in through the window, diluted. Muted sunshine. Quiet. His bed is empty. It has been for years. I wonder where he is now, if he's still as noisy and volatile as he is in death as he was in life. I don't hear any of him now. Not his voice, not the ghost of his memory. Nothing. The silence is louder than the screaming in my head. Louder. LOUDER.

And then, it's just…empty.

The typewriter is there on the desk where it always is, in the process of gathering a new layer of dust. I wonder idly of the stories it has told in its time, when he was still here and still had dreams and nightmares and stories and ideas. Will it ever tell my story? Maybe, maybe not. My story is nothing new.

Some stories write themselves. All you have to do is play it out and accept the ending. And what sort of person would that make you?

I've read one of his stories before. Of course, back then he insisted it was only part fiction. He swore on the facts. He would. I know he wouldn't lie about something like meeting L in person. You can't straight out _lie _about something like that.

And I wouldn't admit it to him back then, but it scared me, the way he wrote "_the best dresser who died like a dog._"

I remember asking him, "What makes you think you will die as plainly as that?" That wasn't a hero's death. That wasn't Mello. Can't be. Shouldn't be.

He just looked me in the eye and said, "It's just a feeling."

I remember rolling my eyes at him, but damn, I was scared.

Why would he say anything like that? The worst part was that he seemed so sure of it. Like he _knew _he would burn out one day. And then, he did.

The _idiot. _That gifted, cursed idiot. Why did he do it anyway? Was there really no way out? He was a _fucking genius _for sanity's sake – couldn't that brilliance save him from himself? Or was it just too much, like a candle that burns itself out too much, too early? Maybe he finally went insane, chasing after all that great power he really had all along. He should have been the exception; he always is, for everything else.

I don't think I'll ever understand him. I won't pretend I knew him better than anyone else. Often I wonder if he knew himself either. Did he really want to win so badly that he would pay that price? Once again, he let Near win. First, he gives up the title. Then, he lets him get away with his life. And Mello? He has nothing to leave behind but a broken friend and a memory going up in flames.

And what good did that do? Near wins. Kira loses. But Mello was never on either side. Not Near's, definitely not Kira's. So what good was it? Everyone wins, everyone but the one who wanted to the most. He gave that up as well, because he must have known he didn't stand a chance alone, and that neither did Near.

Then what was it for, really? He struggled all his life, a life that is only meant to be thrown away. It's a waste, a pity. He never had a chance.

Second chances. Total, total lie.


End file.
